UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

AT   LOS  ANGELES 


ROBERT  ERNEST  COWAN 


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s********-*^"^ 


oft 


JOHN   MARTIN  NEWKIRK 


WILD  CLOVER 


Poems  and  Stories 


WILD   CLOVER 

As  I  walked  down  the  country  lane, 

I  who  have  tramped  the  wide  world  over, 

I  picked  the  wayside  flowers,  and  thought 

"There's  nothing  sweeter  than  wild  clover." 

Dear  boyhood  mem'ries  throng-ed  back 

Of  home  before  I  went  a  rover, 

"No  place  like  home,"  its  love,  its  peace: 

— There's  nothing  sweeter   than  wild   clover. 


JOHN  MARTIN  NEWKIRK 


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THE  POET'S  MISSION 

I  take  words  and  give  them  wings, 
They  leave  the  ground  and  fly 

Into  men's  hearts  and  memories, 
And  there  thev  cannot  die. 


256756 


THE  POET 

Right  at  our  feet  the  treasures  lie, 
The  world  hath  ever  passed  them  by 
Unseen,  until  the  poet's  eye 

Espied  them 
And  seizing  them  with  joyous  cry, 

Bade  all  to  share. 


When  first  ambition  haunted  me 

When  life  was  young  and  full  of  wonder, 

Each  rainbow  end  held  pots  of  gold, 

The  great  things  seemed  way  over  yonder. 

Then  forth  in  search  of  happiness 

Across  the  world  I  went  to  wander; 

But  still  illusion  walked  with  me: 

The  great  things  still  seemed  o>'er  yonder. 

At  last  I  saw  with  seeing  eyes, 
And  weary,  turned  me  homeward,  knowing 
That  happiness  and  peace  and  love 
Were  there  at  my  own  doorstep  growing. 
The  plain  old-fashioned  joys  of  ife, 
Like  humble  flowers  unnoticed  blowing, 
The  humble  virtues  tried  and  true, 
Were  there  at  my  own  doorstep  growing. 

As  I  walked  down  the  country  lane, 

I  who  have  tramped  the  wide  world  over, 

I  picked  the  wayside  flowers,  and  thought 

"There's  nothing  sweeter  than  wild  clover." 

Dear  boyhood  mem'ries  throng-ed  back 

Of  home  before  I  went  a  rover. 

"No  place  like  home,"  its  love,  its  peace: 

— There's  nothing  sweeter  than  wild  clover. 


TREADMILL 

As  I  sit  here  and  write,  the  world  goes  on, 
The  street  cars  carry  loads  of  living  souls 
Past  miles  and  miles  of  houses  to  their  goals : 

From  east  to  west  the  hurrying  trains  are  drawn ; 
The  concerts,  balls  and  plays  each  hold  their 
sway, 

And  life  and  death  contest  the  world  outside; 

E'en  now  some  one  is  born,  some  one  has  died, 
Firemen  are  fighting  a  fire  not  far  away. 

As  I  sit  here,  although  no  sounds  intrude, 
Fate  never  falters  where  eternally 

With  blade  in  hand  our  destinies  she  keeps. 
The  chain  of  life,  unceasing,  endless,  rude, 

Drives  blindly  on:   the  heaving,  surging  sea 
Of  restless  being  slumbers  not  nor  sleeps. 


SONGS  TO  SELL 

If  I  had  songs  to  sell 
What  would  you  buy? 
I  pray  thee  quickly  tell, 
Ballad  or  gay  rondel, 
Sonnet  or  lullaby — 
If  I  had  songs  to  sell 
What  would  you  buy? 


REST 

Golden  summer  sunlight  in  a  pleasant  garden, 

Filtered  through  the  greenleafed  trees 
That  stand  like  mossy  columns,  branches  long 

And  swaying  in  the  lazy  breeze; 
Such  strange  mosaics  in  the  walk  and  grasses: 

Above,  a  splash  of  azure  sky, 
A  cloud  or  two — sweet  smells  from  flowers — 

A  passing  bird  or  butterfly; 
And  one  to  keep  me  silent  company, 

This  is  Rest. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  VALMA  BAY 

"Wait  till  the  wind  dies  down,  my  son, 

Before  you  venture  forth, 
The  waves  are  high  and  black  the  sky; 

The  wind  is  from  the  North. ' ' 

The  warning  came  from  a  sailor  old; 

It  was  his  son  that  said: 
"Ere  I  would  bide  for  wind  or  tide, 

I  rather  would  be  dead." 

The  old  man's  hair  is  white  as  snow, 

He  leans  upon  a  staff. 
Like  a  viking  old  with  hair  of  gold 

The  son  at  fear  doth  laugh. 

"And  thou  wilt  not  bide,  my  son,  my  boy, 

I  will  brave  the  sea  with  thee: 
Should  the  boat  go  down  and  let  thee  drown, 

Life  has  nothing  left  for  me. ' ' 

He  hoists  the  sail  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale, 

Oh,  the  waves  rage  wild  in  glee! 
"On  the  road  to  Hell,  I  would  like  it  well 

That  thou  shouldst  fare  with  me." 

The  town  folk  gather  along  the  shore : 

"Oh,  do  not  sail,"  they  cry, 
"Ye  will  meet  the  storm  when  ye  leave  the  bay 
And  no  ship  can  live  in  that  sea,"  cried  they. 

"Why  go  ye  forth  to  die?" 


THE  BALLAD   OF  VALMA  BAY 

"Ye  be  cowards  all,"  the  young  man  cried. 

"Are  ye  feared  at  a  splash  of  spray? 
Go  home  to  your  fires,  ye  old  grandsires, 

And  leave  me  go  my  way." 

His  sweetheart  stands  on  the  wave-washed  sands 
And  weeps  as  her  heart  would  break. 

She  beats  her  breast  whom  he  loved  best, 
"Oh,  stay  thee,  for  my  sake!" 

Her  skin  is  white  as  the  lashed  sea  foam, 

Her  hair  is  chestnut-brown: 
And  her  lips  are  red  as  the  bright  blood  shed 

On  the  snow  when  the  stag  is  down. 

She  beats  her  breast  whom  he  loved  best 

Yet  never  a  word  spake  he, 
And  with  sullen  brow  he  steered  the  prow 

Straight  out  for  the  open  sea. 

The  hand  of  the  sire  hath  waved  goodby, 

Afar  it  waved  again, 
And  nevermore  on  sea  or  shore 

Were  they  seen  by  the  eyes  of  men. 

For  a  man  will  sail  in  the  face  of  death 

The  more  they  say  him  nay. 
Christ  give  His  Peace  to  their  souls  tonight 

And  hear  us  when  we  pray. 


SUN-DIAL 

The  days  seem  much  alike 

Silent,  like  Time  itself,  no  clock  to  strike. 

On  this  green  lawn 

I  mark  the  hours  from  dawn  to  set  of  sun. 

From  west  to  north,  then  east,  my  shadow  strays 

Each  day  across  my  dial, 

Then  comes  the  night  when  I  may  rest  awhile. 

So  much  alike  my  days, 

Yet,  one  by  one 

Like  beads  or  beaded  tears, 

I  link  them  into  years. 

And  it  may  be, 

When  you  who  read  my  hours  today 

Have  long  passed  away, 

My  shadowed  years  shall  make  a  century. 


SPRING  RAIN 

Autumn  is  past  and  the  rains  are  here 
But  what  though  the  day  is  dark  and  drear, 
There's  a  touch  of  green  on  the  hills,  my  dear, 
There's  a  touch  of  green  on  the  hills. 

It  rains;   but  the  clouds  will  soon  blow  by. 
Yes,  in  the  West  where  the  swallows  fly 
Afar,  there's  a  touch  of  blue  in  the  sky, 
There's  a  touch  of  blue  in  the  sky. 

All  the  hills  will  be  green  clad  soon, 
And  the  sky  clear  blue  as  a  day  in  June, 
Then  laugh,  for  this  old  world's  in  tune, 
This  good  old  world's  in  tune. 


NATURE'S  TEAR? 

You  feel  depressed,  you  say, 

That  your  home-coming  day 

Is  drear  with  April  rain, 

As  if  all  Nature  wept  to  see  you  home  again. 

Nay,  not  so.    Have  you  not  caught  the  spirit  of 

the  Spring? 
Spring  rains  are  Nature's  tears  of  joy — just  hear 

that  robin  sing! 

For  Nature  in  pure  joy, 

Like  some  glad  mother  with  her  lusty  boy, 

Goes  laughing,  laughing,  as  she  sees 

The  green  of  Spring  sweep  o'er  the  earth, 

The  full  buds  bursting  on  the  trees, 

The  first  returning  birds,  the  violet's  birth. 

She  laughs  until  she  cries. 

Those  sweet  tears  from  her  eyes 

Are  April  showers 

That  bring  again  May  flowers. 


THE  GRA;C^  CANYON  OF  THE 
COLORADO 


We  crossed  the  broad  plateau  through  stunted 

pine, 

Then  sudden  on  our  startled  vision  burst, 
As  if  the  world's  red  mouth  gaped  wide,  athirst, 

A  giant  chasm  blazing  in  sunshine. 

Sheer  dropped  the  precipice:    then  slopes,  far- 
thrown 

To  the  long  shadowed  depths  where  ran  the 

stream; 

Then  up  and  up,  each  crag  and  cliff  agleam — 
A  shattered  monster  rainbow  turned  to  stone. 

With  wordless  wonder  long  we  watched  the  view, 
Our  little  standards  smothered  by  its  size : 

As  those  who  dream,  at  each  turn  saw  anew 
E'en  more  gigantic  peaks  arise, 

Until  with  vision  ever  widening, 

A  mountain  seemed  a  very  little  thing. 


MILTON 

His  blindness  was  no  hindrance,  for  he  saw 
Through  all  the  open  windows  of  his  soul, 
Through  mists  of  time  the  centuries  unroll 
To  ages  where  no  earth,  formed  by  God's  law 
Existed.     He  beheld  the  fallen  ones 
Forever  banished  from  their  high  estate; 
He  saw  the  first  creation;    knew  man's  fate 
And  told  the  destiny  of  all  earth's  sons. 

All  this  and  blind!     He  needs  no  mortal  eyes. 
They   might   have   drawn   him   from   his   lofty 

theme, 

With  visions  of  ambition  and  of  power; 
His  blindness  was  a  blessing  in  disguise — 
So  blind  and  blest,  he  could  but  sit  and  dream 
His  poem  line  by  line  and  hour  by  hour. 


ON    THE    VISION    OF    SIR    LAUNFAL 

The  sweetest  poem  in  the  English  tongue 

Tender  as  a  mother's  lullaby. 
It  has  the  beauty  of  the  changing  sea, 

The  storm  and  stress,  the  pulsing  harmony. 

The  purity  of  faith  and  love. 

Some  songs  arouse  as  does  the  trumpet  call, 

They  fill  the  heart  with  fire, 
Inspire  the  thoughts  of  men  to  better  things. 

This  has  the  love  of  man,  of  nature  and  of  God; 

The  melody  of  a  great  organ,  master  played. 


THE  FEAR  OF  BLINDNESS 

The  fear  of  blindness  like  a  shadow  haunts 
My  steps,  hangs  like  a  cloud  on  every  sky. 
When  cross  my  sight  swift  blurs  of  color  fly, 
And  eyeballs  burn,  then  dread  of  darkness  daunts. 
Whene'er  I  go  alone  in  blackest  night 
When  no  stars  shine  on  high,  where  no  lamps 

glow, 

Seeing  not  even  men  "as  trees,"  I  know 
Thus  life  will  be,  if  I  should  lose  my  sight. 
To  walk  in  darkness,  nevermore  to  see 
The  sunlit  land — 

Never  to  read  my  books  nor  lovingly  to  gaze 
On  these  faces  that  I  hold  most  dear — 
I  am  afraid.    Oh,  God,  it  in  thee  lies — 
Save  thou  my  eyes! 


HER  SONG 

Long  years  ago  she  sang  it, 
That  plaintive,  wistful  song. 

And  strangely  it  hath  haunted  me 
Through  many  years  and  long. 

For  oft  in  the  busy  noons, 
In  throng-ed  streets  and  loud; 

Or  when  the  night  is  rich  with  stars 
Above  the  laughing  crowd; 

That  wistful,  haunting  melody 
Comes  floating  down  the  years, 

To  throng  my  heart  with  memories 
And  blind  my  eyes  with  tears. 


STARLIGHT 

Light,  that  left  your  starry  source  a  thousand 

years  ago, 
Reaching  our  earth  in  winter  time  and  gleaming 

upon  the  snow, 

What  can  you  tell  of  your  hurrying  flight 
Through    the    airless    void    and    the    trackless 

night? 

And  the  light  gave  answer : 

"  Far  over  the  sun  and  above  the  stars, 

Beyond  the  gates  of  dawn, 

Farther  than  eye  of  watcher, 

Or  thought  of  man  hath  gone, 

There  was  I  born  of  heat  and  flame, 
And,  shot  like  an  arrow,  I  came,  I  came. 
My  flight  was  swift  as  the  lightnings'  flash 
Or  the  wild-tailed  comet's  dash. 

All  alone  in  the  pathless  dark,  blinded  I  went  my 

way, 

Held  by  a  Power  far  greater  than  I— 
Who  holdeth  the  breadth  of  the  boundless  sky 
In  the  hollow  of  His  hand. ' ' 

To  this,  our  little  world,  the  stars 

Eternal  send  their  light; 
Springtime  and  Summer,  Autumn  and  Winter, 

Day  and  Night, 

Somewhere  'tis  sunset  now,  somewhere  sunrise, 
Somewhere  the  watchers  gaze  on  starry  skies. 


NIGHT'S  TWO  CHILDREN 

Night  has  two  children,  Sleep  and  Death: 

Sleep  standeth  oft  aloof; 
We  beckon  her  to  come 

And  give  us  quietness  and  rest, 
Relief  from  all  our  troubled  cares, 

Respite  of  grief. 

Yet  strange,  Night's  other  child  we  fear  and 

hate 

When  but  his  shadow  near  we  see. 
Many,  we  say,  he  doth  enfold  within  his  cold 

embrace. 

Could  we  but  know  the  truth,  I  deem 
That   we   should   find   our   own   misjudgement 
plain, 

And  death  the  fairer  of  the  twain. 


RAIN 

(A  Fancy) 

Steadily  it  rains. 

From  yonder  chimney  upward  straight 

The  smoke  arises, 

And  to  me  it  seems 

Like  some  Greek  altar, 

From  which  the  burning  incense  rises  toward 

Heaven, 
Bearing  a  message  to  the  gods. 


BOCHERINI'S  MINUET 

Adown  the  hall  the  music  floated 
Of  violin  soft,  silver-noted. 

The  merry  minstrelsy 
Far  away  and  dim,  enchanting 
Like  distant  Elf-land  music, 

Vague  with  mystery. 


THE  LOCKED  DOOR 

Though  our  hearts  were  closely  united 
And  we  strove  for  a  common  goal, 

Neither  entered  the  secret  room 
Where  dwelt  the  other's  soul. 


TRANSCENDING 

To  few,  but  few,  is  it  given 
To  know  in  the  course  of  years 
The  humor  too  great  for  laughter, 
And  a  sorrow  too  deep  for  tears. 


THE   OPTIMIST 

He  made  a  perpetual  motion  machine 

And  showed  me  the  model  all  polished  and  clean. 

When  I  asked:    "Will  it  go?" 

He  answered:   "Well — no, 

But  it  will  when  I've  painted  it  green." 


Love  Poems 


CHERRY  BLOOM 

"O  lass  o'mine,   sweet   singing   underneath   the 

cherry  bough, 
Tell  me  truly  which  is  fairer,  cherry  bloom  or 

thou? 

Pink  and  white  of  cherry  blossom  soft  as  snow, 
Or  thy  cheeks  with  dainty  color  half  aglow?" 

But  she  blushes  nor  replies, 
Mocking  me  with  laughing  eyes. 

"Let  me  answer,  lass  o'mine: 
Both  are  soft  and  wondrous  fine, 
White  and  pink  of  cherry  blossoms,  color  of 

thy  cheek, 
Are  the  same  appearing  now,  may  be  equal  for 

a  week; 

Yet  blossoms  fair  soon  pass  away; 
You  will  be  as  fair  in  autumn 
As  you  are  in  merry  May. 
You  are  fairest,  lass  o'mine." 

Still  she  blushes  nor  replies, 
Mocking  me  with  laughing  eyes. 


LOVE  POEMS 


HER  BEAUTY 

"Beauty  is  only  skin-deep," 

Says  the  cynic  with  a  sneer. 

He  does  not  know, — 

Yet,  if  'twere  so, 

You're  quite  thick  skinned,  my  dear. 


TWO   WEEKS  WITHOUT  A  LETTER 

I  have  no  right  to  hope  that  my  fate  were  better, 

Yet  if  she  knew  how  I  await  her  letter, — 
If  she  knew  every  postman's  coming 

Sets    me    a    tingle,    starts    my    heart's    wild 

drumming; 
And  if  she  knew  how  when  he  passes  by  me 

My  heart  sinks  down  and  drearily  I  hie  me 
Back  to  my  work — if  she  but  knew 

I  think  she'd  write  a  chap,  don't  you? 


LOVE  POEMS 


HER  EYES 

I  knew  that  I  should  meet  her 

In  the  course  of  time — my  fate; 
And  trusting  in  the  future 

Was  quite  content  to  wait; 
And  I  had  little  thought 

Of  how  my  love  would  look, 

What  she  would  wear, 

The  color  of  her  hair. 

But  oft  I  told  myself, 

As  in  my  thoughts  I  saw 
A  dream-like  form 

Of  nameless  beauty— 

"Her  eyes  are  blue." 

The  wheel  of  fate  turned  round,  we  met, 

And  Cupid's  bow  rang  twice. 
She  blushed  and  smiled, 

Her  eyes  cast  down; 

Then  met  my  gaze — 

Her  eyes  were  brown. 


LOVE  POEMS 

TWO  EXTREMES 

(THE  Co-ED.  AND  LAST  YEAR'S  "GRAD.") 

Quoth  a  lazy,  loitering  loafer  to  a  serious,  sober 

student : 
"  Now  don't  you  think  you're  studying  far  harder 

than  is  prudent?" 
"I  am  ambitious,  sir,"  said  she, 

"That's  why  I  came  to  college, 
To  cram  and  jam  my  weary  brain 

With  quick  forgotten  knowledge." 

Said  the  serious,  sober  student 

To  the  lazy,  loitering  loafer: 
"  Oh,  isn't  there  some  kind  of  work 

That  you  could  rouse  and  go  for?" 

"She  ought  to  learn  relaxing  and  repose 

some  way  or  other." 
"I'd  make  him  rise  and  hustle  some," 

says  she,  "were  he  my  brother." 

"You're  one  extreme.    I'm  one  extreme; 

As  such  we're  hard  to  beat, 
Yet  wouldn't  it  be  jolly 

If  we  extremes  could  meet?" 


LOVE  POEMS 


THE   LINGERER 

It  takes  so  long  to  say  good-bye; 
I  start  to  leave  quite  early,  yet 

I  do  not  leave,  I  know  not  why- 
It  takes  so  long  to  say  good-bye. 

I  fear  it  is  no  use  to  try 
To  tell  you,  unless  Cupid's  net — 

It  takes  so  long  to  say  good-bye — 
I  start  to  leave  quite  early — yet — ! 


A  WISE  HORSE 

'Tis  a  long,  long  drive  and  the  horse  goes  slow; 
When  but  one  hand  is  driving  doth  not  the 

horse  know? 
So  it  takes  a  long  time,  and  the  horse  needs  no 

"whoa," 
To  halt  where  the  holly  and  mistletoe  grow. 


LOVE  POEMS 


UNFOLDING 

My  love  is  like  a  flower,  each  day 

A  petal  new  unfolds; 
And  no  one  knows  or  dares  to  say 

What  in  her  heart  she  holds. 

Not  yet  doth  she  know  what  it  holds 

Within  those  petals  fair; 
But  when  her  heart  of  hearts  unfolds 

She'll  find  my  heart  dwells  there. 

Content  I  watch  the  petals  part, 
Each  day  she  grows  more  fair. 

I  wait  till  she  shall  know  her  heart 
And  my  heart  dwelling  there. 


LOVE  POEMS 


THEIR  HONEYMOON 

His  business  called  him  far  away, 

And  he  wrote  back  to  her:    "Sweetheart, 

Before  my  train  had  turned  the  curve, 

I  saw  you  walk  away,  your  head  bowed  down. 

This  should  not  be,  sweetheart. 

He  who  has  kept  us,  keeps  us  still: 

I'll  soon  return,  keep  bright  with  smiles." 

— They  have  been  married  thirty  years, 

One  long,  continued  honeymoon. 


LOVE  POEMS 


"  CUPID'S     MERRY-GO-ROUND  " 

I  love  Louise  who  loves  but  George, 
George  loves  Annette,  and  she, 

Although  I've  never  loved  her, 
Still  persists  in  loving  me. 


PARTING  (With  Interpolations) 

Good  Night, 
Sweet  Dreams, 

(How  Trite  it  Seems.) 
My  Light, 
Good  Night, 

(How  Light  it  Seems.) 
Good  Night, 
Sweet  Dreams. 


LOVE  POEMS 

THE  WEARY  VALENTINE 

Distance    lends    enchantment,  but    it  borrows 

many   things. 
It   deadens     many    friendships;  it    clips     poor 

Cupid's  wings. 

There's  a  cancelled,   blackened  stamp   on  the 

letter  you  receive, 
It  was  clean  and  fresh  and  fine 

When  I  sent  it. 
There's  a  faded    violet   in    the    letter — do  not 

grieve, 
It  was  fair  and  fresh  and  fine 

When  I  sent  it. 
Here's  a  weary  envelope  that  has  traveled  night 

and  day, 

Can't  you  give  it  in  your  kindness  a  nice  restful 
place  to  stay, 

Since  I  sent  it? 
Here's  a  humble  little  rhyme,  sent  you  as  a 

valentine, 

Wishing  you  the  day's  sweet  greetings — fresh 
they  came  from  heart  of  mine, 
When  I  sent  it. 


But  Distance  steals  the  freshness  from  my  little 

valentine, 
Please,  Miss  Amy,  smile  upon  it  and  make  it 

fresh  and  fine, 

Since  I  sent  it. 


Fragments 

(On  Reading  an  Old  Poem) 

It  was  the  soul  song  of  a  singer  long  since 
dead. 

TWO  DOORS 

Since  I  have  been  close  to  the  "Valley  of  the 
Shadow"  I  have  thought  often  about  death. 

Life  is  a  room  with  two  doors:  One  we  call 
"birth",  the  other  "death." 

Everyone  who  enters  by  "birth"  must  leave 
by  "death." 

I  am  sure  that  the  soul  simply  moves  into  a 
new  dwelling  place.  Death  is  the  door  into  the 
new  home,  and  it  is  a  larger,  grander  house  lit  by 
the  presence  of  God. 

"I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you." 


FRAGMENTS 


A   SOLITARY   INSTANCE 

One  lived  as  he  taught; 

One  preached  forgiveness,  and  forgave; 
One  taught  love,  and  loved; 
One  perfect  example; 
One  perfect  life; 

One  sacrificial  death; 
One  Lord  and  Master. 


A   SILENCE 

When  one  sweet  song  has  died  away 
It  is  not  well  to  start  anew 

Until  a  time  has  passed; 

But  let  there  be  a  silent  space 

Until  the  echoes  of  the  echoes  cease. 


FRAGMENTS 


Princeton  "Sem" 

I'm  getting  ready  to  fight  the  moral  battles  of 
my  country. 

A  drop  of  ink 

Makes  millions  think — 

The  line  it  makes  at  evil  hurled 

May  move  the  world. 

After   the   Rain 

The  clouds  upon  the  mountains 
play  at  shadow  pantomine. 

(Two  Songs) 

From  his  soul  he  sent  a  message, 
Hoping  light  and  joy  to  yield, 
As  a  bird  at  evening  singing 
In  the  forest's  depths  concealed. 

(An  Orange  Grove) 

A  ten  acre  orchard  seems  a  good  deal  bigger 
after  you've  worked  around  every  tree  than 
when  you  drove  around  it  in  a  carriage. 


Children's  Poems 


THE  DAY-TIME  STARS 

When  I  was  very  little,  that's  several  years  ago, 
My  papa  said  that  every  day,  although  they 

didn't  show, 
The  big  blue  sky  was  full  of  stars — just  like  the 

sky  at  night, 
But  they  can  never  shine  to  us  because  the  sun's 

so  bright. 
I  thought  I'd  make  the  sun  give  them  a  chance,  if 

it  were  mine, 
For  I  used  to  be  so  sorry  for  the  stars  that 

couldn't  shine. 
And  now  I've  learned  that  as  our  earth  each  year 

goes  round  the  sun, 
The  stars  rise  earlier  each  day,  so  that  the  very 

one 
That's  hidden  all  the  day  in  June,  six  months 

from  then  will  be 
The  star  that  shines  through  all  the  night  where 

everyone  can  see. 
So  every  star  shines  half  the  year;   oh,  isn't  that 

just  fine! 
And  now  I'm  not  so  sorry  for  the  stars  that 

cannot  shine. 


CHILDREN'S  POEMS 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

I  know  the  shadows  fear  the  sun, 

They  hide  behind  each  stone  and  tree; 
Yes,  when  out-doors  I  play  and  run 

A  shadow  hides  and  runs  by  me. 

But  when  the  sun  has  gone  away 

They  lose  their  fear  and  fill  the  air ; 

Then  it  is  Night  instead  of  Day — 

And  shadows  are  most  everywhere. 

I  think  they're  awful  mean  and  bad, 

They  stare  so  wild  and  black  at  night, 

I'm  not  afraid,  but  still  I'm  glad 

When  mother  comes  and  brings  the  light. 


CHILDREN'S  POEMS 


GOING    AND    COMING 

"O,  sober  lads  and  lassies,  why  do  you  walk  so 

slow? 

The  sky  is  clear,  the  air  is  cool, 
Yet  wearily  you  go." 
They  make  reply  as  they  pass  by : 
"We're  just  a-going  to  school, 
— We've  got  to  go  to  school." 

"O  merry  lads  and  lassies,  why  do  you  run  so 

fast? 

Such  active  work  this  warm  June  day, 
Should  be  against  the  rule." 
With  much  surprise  a  lad  replies: 
"We're  going  home  from  school, 
— We've  just  got  out  of  school" 


CHILDREN'S  POEMS 


"I  SPY" 

Clearly  and  sweetly  comes  the  cry : 
"All  sorts  in  free!    All  sorts  in  free!" 
Shrilled  in  the  children's  game,  "I  spy," 
And  makes  it's  wandering  way  to  me. 

While  darkness  falls  when  night  is  nigh, 
The  children  play  and  shout  with  glee: 
Clearly  and  sweetly  comes  the  cry: 
"All  sorts  in  free!    All  sorts  in  free!" 

And  sweet  as  a  mother's  lullaby, 
As  clear  as  bells  rung  merrily, 
With  singsong  melody  they  try 
To  bring  those  back  who  hide  and  flee. 
Clearly  and  sweetly  comes  the  cry : 
"All  sorts  in  free!    All  sorts  in  free!" 

At  dusk  when  Life's  last  game  is  o'er, 
Across  the  waves  that  beat  the  shore, 
Oh,  may  this  message  come  to  me, 
"All  sorts  in  free.    All  sorts  in  free!" 


Stories 


HIS  MASTER 


WHEN  the  two  kennels  were  installed 
in  the  back  yard,  the  neighbors,  who 
foresaw  their  slumbers  broken  by 
nocturnal  duets,  were  mightily  displeased.  But 
after  the  two  dogs  had  been  there  a  month,  and 
Leo,  the  old  mastiff,  had  been  petted  and  slapped 
by  every  child  on  the  block,  and  Jack,  the  collie, 
had  captured  all  hearts  by  his  winning  ways, 
Mrs.  Hornby,  who  "ran  the  boarding  house" 
across  the  street,  was  heard  to  declare  enthusi 
astically:  "Them  two  dogs  is  perfect  gintlemin. 
I  would  me  b'yes  would  take  lessons  iv  them. 
Sure,  Jack  is  a  young  gintleman,  and  Leo  is  an 
old  gintleman,  if  they  are  dogs,  bei'orrah." 

The  two  dogs  were  allowed  the  free  run  of  the 
yard.  Leo  was  a  veritable  Nestor  among  dogs. 
A  giver  of  sage  counsel,  old  and  stiff,  he  loved  to 
lie  for  hours  in  the  warm  sun,  dreaming  of  former 
days.  You  would  think  he  was  sound  asleep, 
if  a  half-uttered  bark  or  a  rumbling  growl  did 
not  make  you  aware  that  he  was  acting  over  in 
his  mind  some  scene  of  early  life.  Jack,  with 
ceaseless  activity,  scoured  the  yard  and  inves- 


HIS  MASTER 

tigated  everything  he  could  get  his  nose  into.  He 
would  try  to  induce  Leo  to  play  with  him,  danc 
ing  up  to  him  in  fierce  fun  and  growling  as  if  in 
anger.  Sometimes  the  mastiff,  having  weight 
and  skill  in  his  favor,  would  spring  at  him  and 
tumble  him  head  over  heels,  before  he  knew 
what  had  happened.  Jack  would  return  to  the 
conflict  with  unabated  vigor,  but  Leo  would  keep 
him  off  with  thrusts  of  his  big  paw.  He  never 
learned  how  to  break  that  guard.  Or  the  two 
dogs  would  lie  facing  each  other  and  gnaw  bones, 
conversing  as  dumb  children  do,  by  signs  which 
are  unintelligible  to  our  undiscerning  eyes. 

But  most  of  all  Jack  enjoyed  the  long  walks  to 
the  hills  with  his  Master.  When  he  saw  his 
Master  coming  home  in  the  afternoon  ready  for 
a  walk,  he  would  spring  wildly  into  the  air  and 
bark  with  a  delirium  of  joy.  Leo  would  never 
accompany  them.  He  would  hobble  as  far  as  the 
corner  and  in  spite  of  Jack's  persuasions  halt 
there  and  wistfully  watch  them  depart,  and 
finally  turn  and  limp  back  to  his  kennel  to  lie  in 
the  sun.  He  was  too  old  for  such  jaunts. 

Then  Jack  and  his  Master  would  hurry  away 
to  the  hills  and  the  "breadth  of  the  open  air." 
Those  were  the  times  Jack  loved  the  best.  In 


HIS  MASTER 

perfect  fellowship,  the  two  would  wander  over 
the  hills  and  far  away  on  exploring  trips.  Some 
times  Jack  would  run  in  great  circles  and  come 
racing  back,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  the  wild  joy 
of  living,  and  unfettered  freedom.  Or  he  would 
wa'k  by  his  Master's  side,  trying  to  express  his 
love  by  touching  his  nose  to  his  Master's  hand 
and  by  looking  up  into  his  face. 

Often  it  would  be  pitch  dark  when  they  re 
turned.  Jack  would  be  bubbling  over  with  the 
incidents  of  the  excursion,  for  everything  was 
new  and  wonderful  to  him,  and  he  was  interested 
in  all  that  he  saw.  And  Leo  would  listen  and 
appreciate. 

"I  used  to  go  out  walking  with  his  elder 
brother,"  he  would  say.  "Those  were  days 
worth  living." 

Then  he  would  rouse  up  and  tell  Jack  of  the 
night  he  fought  with  the  burglar  until  help  came, 
or  how  he  swam  out  in  the  lake  and  saved  his 
master's  little  sister.  He  told  these  stories 
simply  and  quietly,  for  heroes  never  brag.  Or 
he  might  tell  Jack  the  traditions  of  the  old  days 
when  men  and  dogs  first  began  to  work  together, 
driving  the  wild  beasts  in  the  hunt  or  watching 
over  the  herds  by  night,  and  queer  unbelievable 


HIS  MASTER 

tales  of  dogs  in  other  lands  that  ran  wild  and 
fought  for  themselves  and  had  nothing  to  do  with 
men:  legends  and  tales  handed  down  from 
generation  to  generation  through  centuries  of 
captivity,  full  of  keen  wisdom  and  deep  insight. 

II. 
"  MY  MASTER  IS  MY  GOD  " 

Many  things  puzzled  Jack.  He  could  not 
understand  why  he  was  not  allowed  in  the  house, 
or  why  every  one  did  not  like  him.  Every  day 
he  was  mystified  by  something,  although  he 
tried  to  explain.  All  days  were  alike  to  him,  and 
yet  his  Master  made  a  difference.  For  days  at 
a  time  his  Master  would  go  off  with  many  books, 
and  there  would  be  a  light  in  his  room  late  at 
night.  Then  his  Master  would  walk  with  him 
all  afternoon  in  the  hills,  and  the  very  next  day 
would  start  out  all  dressed  up  and  very  solemn, 
and  would  not  let  Jack  go  with  him.  Once  Jack 
disobeyed,  and  followed  unobserved,  keeping  far 
behind.  And  his  Master  entered  a  big  building, 
where  many  others  were  entering.  But  when 
Jack  tried  to  follow,  a  man  came  and  drove  him 
away.  Whereat  he  went  home  much  subdued. 

Leo  explained  as  best  he  could:  "He  goes  to 
worship  his  God." 

256756 


HIS  MASTER 

"But  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Jack. 
"What  is  his  God?" 

It  was  a  hard  problem  even  for  Leo,  who  was 
wise. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  it,"  he  confessed* 
"But  his  God  made  everything  for  him  and  looks 
after  him  to  see  that  everything  is  all  right.'*  So 
he  loves  him  because  he  is  good  to  him  and  he 
will  do  anything  for  him." 

"My  Master  is  my  God,"  said  Jack.  "He 
does  everything  for  me.  I  love  him  with  all  my 
love." 

"Yes,"  said  Leo,  "he  is  our  God." 

III. 
"TWO'S  COMPANY;  THREE'S  A  CROWD" 

But  Jack  liked  especially  those  trips  that  ran 
so  that  he  could  stop  and  play  with  the  deaf  and 
dumb  children.  He  would  romp  with  them  or  let 
them  pet  him  as  long  as  his  Master  would  wait. 

"I  do  so  love  to  be  with  them,"  he  often  told 
Leo  at  night.  "They  can't  talk  any  more  than 
we  can.  And  they  have  to  make  signs  and 
speak  with  their  eyes  and  hands.  I  know  how 
they  must  wish  to  speak.  Oh,  if  I  only  could 
talk!" 


HIS  MASTER 

One  day  Jack  came  home  disconsolate. 
"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Leo. 

"Why,"  answered  Jack,  "we  were  at  the  place 
where  the  children-who-talk-as-we-do  are,  and  I 
was  romping  with  them  when  a  young  lady  came 
out  of  one  of  the  buildings. 

"My  Master  said:  'Have  you  been  teaching 
them  something  useful  today?  You  must  be 
very  weary.  Come  and  take  a  walk  and  get 
rested.'  So  she  went.  And  they  just  walked 
so  slow  and  talked.  They  never  looked  at  me  or 
called,  and  he  didn't  throw  sticks  for  me  to 
chase  or  anything.  She  didn't  seem  to  like  what 
he  said,  for  she'd  look  away  and  her  face  would 
get  red,  and  she'd  hardly  say  anything  to  him 
for  the  longest  time. 

"Then  she  must  have  slipped  crossing  one  of 
those  gullies,  for  he  caught  hold  of  her  to  keep 
her  from  falling  down,  and  then  they  walked 
slower  than  ever.  Never  looked  at  me  at  all.  I 
was  so  lonesome. 

"By  and  by  they  sat  down  on  an  old  seat  up 
there.  Master  called  me. 

"  'Jack,  come  and  meet  Miss  Marguerite' — 
and  there  I'd  been  with  them  half  an  hour  before 
he'd  thought  of  it.  I  came,  but  I  didn't  want  to 


HIS  MASTER 

be  friends  with  her.  But  before  I  knew  it  she 
was  holding  my  head  in  both  her  hands  and 
looking  at  me  so  nice — why,  I  just  couldn't 
help  liking  her.  So  I  wagged  my  tail  and  licked 
her  hands. 

"Master  said:  'Smart  dog;  he  knows  on 
which  side  his  bread's  buttered.' 

"Then  she  kind  of  slapped  him.  And  I 
growled — just  a  little  —  gently,  you  know. 
Master  said  to  her,  'Well,  after  all,  I  guess  he'll 
protect  me,  so  I  won't  be  henpecked.' 

"After  that  they  talked  a  lot.  I  didn't  under 
stand  a  bit  of  it.  They  never  paid  any  attention 
to  me.  Then  she  said:  'Jack,  you  can  be  our 
chaperon.'  What's  a  chaperon  for?  Don't 
think  I  was  ever  called  that  before.  So  I  went 
off  up  the  hill  and  left  them  by  themselves.  Was 
that  the  right  thing  for  a  chaperon  to  do? 

"  Got  up  on  a  ledge  of  rock.  Right  below  me 
there  were  three  ground  squirrels  feeding,  and 
they  didn't  see  me  or  smell  me,  because  I  was 
alone.  I  jumped  down.  Whoop,  you  ought  to've 
seen  'em  run!  Laughed  till  I  couldn't  wag  my 
tail. 

"Came  back  and  found  them  still  sitting 
there.  And  they  walked  home  slower  than  a 


HIS  MASTER 

fat  poodle.  That's  what  made  me  so  late.  She's 
real  nice,  but  I  wish  she  could  walk  without 
stumbling,  so  Master  wouldn't  have  to  hold  her 
all  the  time  to  keep  her  from  falling.  And  they 
never  paid  any  attention  to  me." 

"Yes,"  said  Leo,  "I  know  the  symptoms.  He's 
in  love.  When  I  used  to  go  out  with  his  brother 
they  did  the  same  way.  But  he  went  with  three 
before  he  found  the  right  one.  You  can  be 
thankful  you're  allowed  to  go  at  all." 

Thus  it  was  for  a  long  time.  Jack  hardly  took 
pleasure  in  his  walks  any  more.  He  was  out  of 
place  in  the  new  order  of  things.  He  knew  his 
Master  would  have  enjoyed  the  walks  just  as 
well  without  his  presence.  They  were  very  good 
to  him  when  they  paid  any  attention  at  all.  But 
he  had  ceased  to  be  the  center  of  attraction  and 
was  lonesome,  horribly  lonesome.  He  wandered 
off  and  investigated  tracks  and  scents  and 
burrows  without  being  missed. 

IV. 
"GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN" 

Then  one  day — Jack  never  knew  how  or  why 
— the  old  order  of  things  was  resumed.  She 
walked  with  them  no  more,  and  dog  and  Master 


HIS  MASTER 

went  off  again  for  long,  rapid  walks.  Jack  would 
have  been  perfectly  happy,  but  that  his  Master 
was  so  irritable  and  morose.  Sometimes  he 
became  his  former  self  and  played  with  the  dog, 
throwing  sticks  for  him  to  chase,  and  indulging 
in  mad  runs  with  him.  The  dog  could  not 
comprehend  why — but  he  would  run  his  cold 
nose  in  his  Master's  hand  and  look  up,  as  if  to 
say:  "You  still  have  me,  Master." 

So  month  after  month  went  by,  until  it  became 
too  hot  for  even  the  irrepressible  Jack  to  care  for 
long  and  tiresome  tramps.  They  went  out  less 
often  now  and  followed  the  beaten  roads. 

"Oh,"  said  Jack.  "I  wish  I  could  talk!  I 
met  her  on  the  street  and  went  home  with  her, 
and  she  kissed  me  and  cried  and  said:  'Jack, 
tell  him  it  was  all  a  mistake.  I  love  him  just  the 
same.'  And  I  can't  tell  him.  I  wish  I  could 
talk." 

So  the  Master  never  knew  the  message  the  dog 
had  received. 

Jack  was  in  his  prime  now,  a  handsome  collie. 
The  long  tramps  kept  him  in  good  condition. 
One  day  he  and  his  Master  were  returning  from  a 
walk  in  the  hills,  and  were  going  home  along  the 
road  they  had  traveled  so  often  with  Miss 


HIS   MASTER 

Marguerite.  Of  a  sudden,  rounding  a  curve  they 
came  upon  her.  Jack  ran  toward  her,  but  she 
gave  him  no  heed.  Dejectedly  he  turned  back. 
"Probably  it's  because  my  hair  is  shedding," 
he  thought,  "and  she  doesn't  want  to  get  all 
mussed  up."  His  Master  had  straightened  up 
and  was  walking  rapidly,  not  looking  her  way. 
She  had  tilted  back  her  head  and  was  apparently 
unconscious  of  their  presence.  They  were  pass 
ing  in  silence. 

At  that  instant  there  came  a  cry  up  the  road: 
"Mad  dog!  Mad  dog!"  and  a  great  brute,  with 
froth  dripping  from  his  mouth,  came  charging 
down  upon  them.  Jack  knew  and  trembled. 
His  mother  and  Leo  had  told  him  of  this  terrible 
poisonous  lunacy.  Once  before  he  had  seen  such 
a  sight. 

He  was  starting  to  run — anything  to  escape — 
when  he  heard  her  scream  and  halted.  From  the 
corner  of  his  eye  he  saw  his  Master  snatch  her 
in  his  arms  and  start  for  the  fence;  saw  that  they 
were  directly  in  the  brute's  path,  knew  in  a 
flash  that  they  would  be  too  late,  and  charged 
like  a  hero  against  the  oncomer. 

It  was  over  in  an  instant.  The  brute  ran  on  in 
silence  and  Jack  lay  there  on  the  road  badly 
bitten. 


HIS  MASTER 

V. 
THE   MADNESS 

Everything  that  could  be  done  was  done  for 
him.  His  Master  jerked  out  a  knife  and  cut 
out  the  flesh  around  the  bites,  and  later,  at 
home,  they  burnt  the  wounds  with  a  red-hot 
iron. 

The  white-haired  physician  came  and  brought 
a  specialist  with  him. 

"It's  little  use,"  he  said.  "He  was  bitten  too 
deep.  You  had  better  kill  him  now  and  end  his 
misery." 

"Is  there  no  hope?"  asked  Jack's  Master. 
"There  is  a  possibility." 

"Then  I  won't  kill  him  till  it's  sure.  I  can't 
believe  he'll  have  it.  I  just  can't  believe  it." 

Then  Jack  was  chained  up  in  the  yard  and 
Leo's  kennel  moved  beyond  reach  of  his  chain. 
His  wounds  itched  as  they  healed.  He  was 
possessed  with  a  constant  restlessness.  He 
paced  back  and  forth  the  full  length  of  his 
chain,  as  a  chained  tiger  in  the  night.  Why 
could  he  not  go  for  a  walk?  Uneasy  and  irri 
table,  he  fretted  constantly.  Even  his  Master 
could  not  calm  him. 


HIS  MASTER 

Jack  knew  his  Master  cared,  but  there  were 
many  things  these  days  he  did  not  understand. 
Why  did  his  Master  wear  heavy  gloves  when  he 
fed  him?  Why  were  there  no  more  long  walks? 
Leo  would  tell  him  nothing.  Once  Miss  Mar 
guerite  came  and  petted  him,  but  his  Master  had 
muzzled  him  first,  so  that  he  could  not  even  lick 
her  hand. 

At  night  Jack  could  see  his  Master's  shadow 
cross  and  recross  the  curtain,  for  the  Master 
loved  his  dog  and  was  worried.  Frequently  he 
would  come  into  my  room  and  run  over  the  whole 
subject.  Either  because  they  had  treated  the 
bites  so  quickly,  or  some  other  reason,  the 
malady  was  slow  in  developing.  And  his  Master 
would  take  courage. 

"He  would  have  had  it  by  this  time  if  he  were 
going  to  have  it,"  he  would  argue,  hoping  against 
hope. 

But  Jack  was  growing  more  irritable  every 
day.  He  was  afraid  of — he  knew  not  what,  and 
angry — he  knew  not  why.  He  dragged  his 
clanking  chain  over  the  ground  with  increasing 
restlessness.  Then  one  afternoon  everything 
became  dry  and  parching.  The  ground  was  hot 
as  fire.  His  throat  seemed  to  be  burning.  He 


HIS  MASTER 

suffered  from  thirst  and  desired  eagerly  to 
drink,  but  he  choked  and  could  riot  swallow.  He 
could  scarcely  breathe.  His  head  throbbed  till 
his  eyes  started  from  their  sockets.  Everything 
was  burning.  Everyone  was  against  him.  All 
around  were  red  people  trying  to  kill  him.  He 
tried  to  run,  for  he  was  afraid,  but  his  chain  held 
him.  He  turned  and  snapped  and  snarled  at 
them,  rolling  over  and  over  in  his  agony.  Even 
Leo  was  against  him.  He  ran  toward  him,  biting 
in  wild  fury,  but  the  chain  threw  him  back — 

He  lay  on  the  ground,  weak  and  sick.  The 
world  was  natural  again.  He  seemed  as  one 
coming  from  a  dream. 

"What  was  it,  Leo?     Was  it  the  Madness?" 
"Yes,  it  was  the  Madness." 

"And  I  snapped  at  you.  You  know  I  didn't 
mean  it,  Leo.  All  the  world  was  red  and 
burning." 

The  next  day  Jack  snapped  at  his  Master. 
He  was  himself  again  in  an  instant,  cowering 
along  the  ground,  with  his  great  eyes  looking  up 
in  mute  appeal  and  apology.  But  the  mischief 
was  done :  his  Master  knew  now  beyond  a  doubt 
that  he  had  the  Madness. 


HIS  MASTER 

"Yes,  Jack,  old  man,"  he  said,  "I  know  you 
didn't  mean  it,"  and  hastily  putting  down  the 
plate  of  food,  he  ran  into  the  house. 

He  was  face  to  face  with  the  inevitable.  It 
was  best  that  Jack's  suffering  should  not  be 
prolonged.  He  came  into  my  room. 

"  I  want  to  borrow  your  gun.  And — come  with 
me.  I  may  need  you." 

When  Jack  saw  the  gun  he  understood  and 
quivered.  He  looked  up  at  his  Master  with 
piteous  entreaty.  Life  is  sweet  even  to  the  last. 
There  was  no  trace  of  madness  in  his  eyes,  and 
he  looked  as  intelligent  and  loving  as  he  ever  had 
in  his  life. 

His  Master  broke  down. 

"Here,"  he  said  to  me,  "you  take  it  and — be 
quick.  I  was  a  fool  to  try.  Oh  Jack,  my  dog! 
My  dog!" 

My  eyes  were  so  wet  I  could  scarcely  see  along 
the  sights. 


In  the  home  of  a  Berkeley  graduate  you  may 
see  the  picture  of  a  fine  collie.  Below  it  is  written 
simply:  "Jack.  M^y  13,  1896."  But  you  must 


HIS  MASTER 

not  ask  your  host  to  tell  you  about  it.     Should 
you  approach  the  subject,  his  wife  will  say: 

"He  once  saved  my  life,"  and  deftly  change 
the  subject.  Their  son  answers  to  the  name  of 
"Jack."  Some  people  think  it  is  almost  a  crime 
that  they  should  name  a  boy  after  a  dog.  But 
they  think  Jack  is  one  of  the  sweetest  names  in 
the  world. 

Leo  died  two  years  later,  peacefully  and 
painlessly,  with  his  Master  holding  his  head.  At 
the  last  he  gave  a  little  happy  bark,  as  he  used  to 
when  he  saw  Jack  coming  home.  I  trust  there 
is  a  heaven  for  dogs. 


Only  once  in  the  years  that  have  passed  did 
my  friend  break  the  silence  that  shrined  his 
devoted  collie.  In  one  of  those  rare  moments  of 
confidence  between  men,  he  said: 

"My  deepest  sorrow  has  always  been  that 
Jack  did  not  understand,  didn't  know  that  his 
noble  sacrifice  saved  the  dearest  one  in  all  the 
world  to  me.  And  he  could  not  know  that  the 
end  was  the  greatest  kindness  to  him." 


HIS   MASTER 

"Man,  man!"  I  answered,  "the  noblest  effort 
in  life  is  doing  duty  as  it  comes,  without  thought 
of  reward.  And  Jack  reached  the  very  apex  of 
unselfishness  through  love." 

Tears  sprang  to  his  eyes;  he  wrung  my  hand, 
and  turning  to  the  picture  exclaimed:  "Greater 
love  hath  no  man." 


A  Temptation  in  The 
Wilderness 


The  Devil  hath  spoken  him  fair  and  free — 
"  By  me  men's  lives  are  bought  and  sold 
For  Power  and  Fame  and  the  Love  of  gold. 

Now  what  will  you  take  for  your  soul?"  quoth  he, 
"What  will  you  take  for  your  soul?" 

THE  Overland  was  late  again.  The  colored 
waiters  lounged  in  the  shadow  of  the 
station  and  lazily  teased  a  young  terrier. 
Out  in  the  blazing  sun,  two  little  Mexicans 
played  a  noisy  game  of  teeter-totter  on  the 
baggage  truck,  meanwhile  eating  red  peppers 
and  often  sniffing  hungrily  at  the  dense  smell  of 
onions  and  coffee  that  floated  through  the 
restaurant  windows.  East  of  the  station,  the 
scattered  adobe  houses  stood  lifeless  and  for 
bidding  as  white  sepulchers. 

An  old  cat  crawled  from  under  the  platform. 
The  terrier  ran  at  her,  but  remembering  previous 
experiences,  kept  at  a  safe  distance  and  with 
excited  awkwardness,  danced  up  and  down, 
yelping  in  high  pitched  puppy  tones.  The 
negroes  laughed. 


A  TEMPTATION  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

The  owner  of  the  dog  seized  the  opportunity. 

"Yo'  come  hear,  Benjamin  Rastus.  She 
ain't  gwine  to  hurt  yo',  yo'  insignifercant  con 
glomeration  ob  audacity.  Don'  yo'  know  it's 
too  hot  fo'  a  fool  pup  like  yo'  to  be  exercisin' 
that  obstreperous?  Shet  yo'  noise." 

A  little  girl  with  a  dusty  package  came  down 
the  road  toward  the  station.  The  waiters  eyed 
her  curiously. 

"  Der's  little  Miss  Lucy  comin'  down  to  sell  her 
pa's  books." 

"She  ain't  sol'  a  one  las'  time.  I  wonder 
would  she  get  spunky  if  I  was  to  give  her  a 
biscuit  or  a  sandwich?" 

"She  don'  get  as  much  to  eat  as  that'er  cinder 
cat,  but  she  won'  take  nuthin'.  Her  folks  was 
quality." 

The  child  climbed  up  the  steps  and  dropped 
her  package  on  the  bench.  The  cat  came  purring 
and  rubbed  against  her.  She  stooped  and  petted  it . 

"Goo'  day,  Miss  Lucy.  Powerful  hot,  jus4 
wiltin,'  ain't  it?  You  all  well?" 

"Father  isn't  so  well  as  he  was.  It  is  so  hot 
and  he  misses  his  books." 


A  TEMPTATION  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Might  sorry  to  hear  it,  Miss  Lucy.  Ther' 
was  a  gen'leman  lef  a  book  here  yesterda'  an' 
I  saved  it  fo'  yo'  to  take  to  yo'  pa." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Charlie.  Father  will  be  so 
pleased." 

Here  the  station  agent  came  to  the  window  and 
with  a  great  show  of  fierceness  drove  the  Mexi 
can  boys  from  their  play.  But  when  he  saw  the 
child  he  smiled  and  called  cheerily: 

"You're  just  in  time,  Lucy.  Here  comes  the 
Overland.  Good  luck  to  you  today.  Don't  be 
bashful." 

The  station  came  to  life  at  the  sound  of  the 
train.  The  waiters  hurried  indoors  to  their 
places.  The  cat  sprang  under  the  platform. 
With  a  rush  and  roar  and  clang  of  bell,  the  great 
locomotive  came  panting  along  the  hot  rails  and 
stopped  at  the  end  of  the  platform.  A  man 
in  uniform  began  to  beat  a  gong  in  front  of  the 
restaurant.  The  porters  swung  off  the  train,  and 
after  them,  like  cattle  stampeding  through  a 
corral,  the  passengers  swarmed  into  the  eating 
room.  Then  the  waiters  hurried  around  shouting 
orders  and  the  impatient  crowd  buzzed  and 
chattered. 


A  TEMPTATION  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

The  little  girl  stood  by  the  door  and  offered 
copies  of  a  book  to  the  passersby.  Few  of  them 
even  noticed  her.  They  were  dusty  and  heated, 
provoked  by  the  lateness  of  the  train  and  in  a 
hurry  to  get  served.  Those  who  paused  did 
nothing  but  glance  at  her  and  the  book  she 
offered  them,  and  pass  on  into  the  restaurant 
with  a  surly,  "No,  I  don't  want  it,"  or  a  half 
sympathetic  smile  of  negation. 

Then  almost  at  once  the  tide  of  people  turned 
back.  Men  and  women  began  to  leave  the 
place,  far  more  irritable  than  when  they  entered. 
As  they  came  out,  they  complained  at  the 
stuffiness  of  the  station,  the  poorness  of  the 
food,  and  the  heat  and  desolation  of  the  place. 
The  child  went  around  from  group  to  group 
and  in  an  almost  inarticulate  voice  tried  to  sell 
the  book. 

"Buy  a  souvenir  of  California,"  she  said, 
"only  a  quarter.  My  father  wrote  the  poems. 
The  book  costs  only  two  bits." 

The  child's  voice  sounded  pitiful,  but  the 
passengers  were  in  no  mood  to  buy.  The  pro 
fessional  beggars  have  calloused  our  hearts  to 
the  voice  of  misery.  She  went  unheeded  and  no 
one  bought. 


A  TEMPTATION  IN  THE   WILDERNESS 

A  girl  of  her  own  age,  dressed  in  the  latest 
style  and  evidently  uncomfortable,  gazed  at  her 
with  critical  eyes.  Complacently  she  noted  her 
thinness,  the  cheap,  worn  dress  and  her  ragged 
and  dusty  shoes.  The  child  had  endured  the 
attitude  of  the  others,  but  to  be  thus  held  in 
contempt  by  another  girl  was  too  much,  and 
without  a  sound  she  fled  out  of  range  around  the 
side  of  the  station  and  dropped  in  a  heap  on  a 
bench. 

"Why,  what's  this?"  exclaimed  a  large  woman 
who  sat  there,  vigorously  fanning  herself  with  a 
huge  palm-leaf.  "Are  you  ill?  Oh,  you're  the 
child  that's  been  standing  around  selling  that 
book,  aren't  you?  Let's  see  one.  Hum- 
nothing  but  verses." 

The  child  scanned  her  uncertainly.  Although 
the  voice  was  not  unkind,  instinctively  she  felt 
a  dislike  for  this  overdressed,  talkative  woman. 
But  here  was  a  possible  sale.  It  was  her  duty  to 
stay.  She  remembered  her  father's  parting 
words:  "Be  a  brave  girl,  Lucy.  Do  the  best  you 
can.  I  don't  know  where  our  supper's  coming 
from  unless  you  sell  a  book  today." 

"Yes,  ma'am,  it's  a  book  of  poems  my  father 
wrote.  They  are  considered  very  fine  by  critics 
and  students. ' 


A  TEMPTATION  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Oh, I  never  read  such  stuff, "said  the  woman 
carelessly.  "Who  is  your  father  and  what  are 
you  doing  here?" 

"It's  all  there  on  the  title  page  and  the  things 
he  used  to  be.  We  had  to  come  here  because 
father  had  catarrh  and  hay  fever.  But  he's  got 
well  now." 

At  the  mention  of  hay  fever  the  woman  showed 
an  active  interest.  She  ceased  to  fan  herself  and 
opened  the  book. 

"Why,  that's  interesting,  child.  Your  father's 
name  is — oh,  here  it  is,  James  Raymond  Ander 
son,  ex-school — hum — hum,  some  time  professor 
in  the  California  State — hum — hum — hum.  Well 
I  guess  most  everybody  in  California  or  the  West 
has  heard  of  your  father.  And  he's  had  hay-fever 
and  got  over  it?  How  much  are  your  books?" 

"Only  a  quarter,  ma'am." 

"Well,  I'll  buy  one.  I've  got  the  change.  Is 
this  the  only  one  you've  sold  today?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  child. 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  meet  your  father. 
Where  do  you  live?" 

"The  last  house  down  the  road.  But  you 
haven't  time.  Your  train  will  go." 


A  TEMPTATION  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Just  wait  a  minute  and  I'll  see."  She  came 
back,  puffing.  "There's  a  freight  late  this 
afternoon  with  a  caboose.  I'm  only  going  to  the 
next  town  tonight,  anyway.  Are  you  ready  to 
come  now?" 

The  child  was  mystified.  She  wondered  as 
she  started  down  the  road,  "Why  does  this 
woman  want  to  see  my  father?"  But  she  could 
find  no  answer.  The  two  walked  side  by  side  in 
silence,  the  child  stretching  awkwardly  in  the 
attempt  to  keep  up  with  her  companion.  The 
woman  fanned  herself  as  she  walked.  They  were 
both  almost  gasping  for  breath  when  the  child 
halted.  "This  is  where  we  live,"  she  said- 
"Father,  here  is  some  one  who  wishes  to  see 
you." 

"All  right,  Lucy,"  and  with  the  words  an  old 
man  appeared  at  the  doorway.  He  was  bent  and 
feeble;  his  hair  and  beard  were  white;  his  face 
was  kindly;  his  white  canvas  clothes  were  worn 
and  frayed.  All  this  the  woman  noted  at  a 
glance. 

"You  are  welcome.  Come  in  and  sit  down 
while  I  get  you  a  drink.  It  is  a  parching  day," 
and  his  manner  was  almost  patriarchal  as  he 
slowly  brought  a  tin  cup  full  of  water  from  the 
Olla  and  handed  it  to  her. 


A  TEMPTATION  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"My  name,"  said  the  woman,  "is  Mrs.  Robert 
Lowden.  I  met  your  daughter  at  the  station, 
and  as  I  had  heard  of  you  so  often  and  enjoyed 
your  poems  so  much" — the  child  cast  a  startled 
glance  at  her — "I  gladly  embraced  the  oppor 
tunity  of  meeting  you,  even  through  this  heat 
and  dust." 

"Mrs.  Lowden,  you  honor  me  greatly.  It 
does  an  old  man's  heart  good  to  hear  a  word  of 
flattery.  We  have  few  visitors  here  and  I  keep 
little  track  of  the  outside  world." 

"You  are  in  a  desolate  and  lonely  place.  Why 
do  you  live  in  this  forsaken  wilderness?" 

He  looked  astonished  at  being  questioned,  but 
answered  simply  as  a  child. 

"  I  came  here  on  account  of  my  health.  I  was 
afflicted  with  catarrh  and  hay-fever.  But  since 
I  came  here,  the  dry  air  and  heat  have  cured  me 
entirely.  I  have  much  to  be  thankful  for." 

"Yes,  that  is  what  your  daughter  told  me,  and 
why  I  came.  I  am  deeply  interested  in  a 
company  which  has  just  put  on  the  market  a 
remedy  for  catarrh  and  all  such  diseases." 

"But  I  need  no  such  thing  now.  I  am  per 
fectly  well." 


A  TEMPTATION  IN   THE  WILDERNESS 

"I  can  see  that.  You  are  certainly  looking 
well.  But  we  are  going  to  get  out  a  circular  next 
month  to  advertise  our  medicine.  It  will  be  a 
simple  statement  of  what  the  medicine  can  do, 
and  we  want  some  testimonials  of  what  it  has 
done.  The  public  won't  touch  a  new  thing  now- 
a-days  unless  it  is  well  advertised  by  testimonials, 
and  we  haven't  time  to  introduce  it  slowly  and 
locally  before  we  commence  our  campaign.  So 
I  am  getting  credentials  from  old  residents  and 
prominent  people.  It  was  for  that  purpose  I 
came  to  see  you  today." 

"You  wish  a  testimonial  from  me?  How  can 
I  recommend  that  which  I  have  not  tried?" 

"You  do  not  need  to  do  that.  I  can  leave  a 
bottle  with  you  and  you  may  take  a  few  doses. 
It  is  absolutely  harmless,  I  assure  you.  Then 
you  can  write  an  entirely  truthful  statement  like : 

'  I  was  afflicted  with  catarrh  and  hay -fever  for 
years,  but  since  I  used  your  medicine  have  had 
no  trouble  at  any  season  of  the  year.'  That's 
true,  every  word  of  it.  It  isn't  what  you  say, 
but  your  name  we  want.  Mr.  R.  B.  Tomplinson 
gave  me  a  fine  testimonial  yesterday  without 
even  testing  my  medicine." 

"That  'Bob'  Tomplinson  did  such  a  thing,  is 
no  reason  why  I  should." 


A  TEMPTATION  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  hurried  on  with  her  set  speech.  "  Certainly 
not.  I  did  not  expect  it  of  you.  But  when  you 
have  tried  it,  you  can  give  us  a  carefully  worded 
letter  with  a  clear  conscience.  This  discovery 
will  save  many  a  man's  life,  if  he  can  only  be 
persuaded  to  use  it.  The  sooner  we  get  this 
before  the  public,  the  sooner  we  shall  reach  these 
sufferers.  I  but  ask  you  to  aid  in  this  work  of 
mercy." 

"Madame,  under  the  circumstances  it  is 
impossible." 

"I  can  make  it  well  worth  your  while.  As  a 
recompense  for  your  trouble,  I  will  gladly  make 
you  out  a  check  for,  say,  twenty-five  dollars." 

The  old  man  sat  bolt  upright  in  his  chair,  and 
though  his  voice  was  low,  it  had  in  it  the  ring  of 
steel,  "  Madame,  it  is  useless  to  attempt  to  bribe 
me." 

"You  misinterpret  me,  Mr.  Anderson.  You 
put  down  nothing  but  the  truth  and  I  pay  you  for 
your  trouble,  as  I  would  pay  you  for  doing 
clerical  work  in  our  office.  It  is  simply  pay  for 
value  received.  I  know  you  need  it,"  she  said 
brutally.  "Your  daughter  unconsciously  gave 
me  a  clear  understanding  of  your  situation. 
Another  thing !  We  need  a  man  of  your  literary 


A  TEMPTATION  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

abilities  to  assist  in  editing  our  advertising  work. 
The  pay  is  not  large,  but  you  could  live  on  it 
comfortably  and  send  your  daughter  to  school, 
instead  of  having  her  peddle  books  in  a  railway 
station." 

"  I  will  gladly  do  any  honest  work  I  am  able  to 
perform,"  he  began  eagerly.  "I  would  gladly 
accept  such  an  offer." 

"I  will  use  all  my  influence  to  get  it  for  you, 
provided  of  course,  you  favor  me  by  using  some 
of  the  medicine  and  give  me  a  letter  of  approval." 

"Madame,  you  tempt  me  almost  beyond  my 
strength.  But  I  have  told  you  and  I  reaffirm  it, 
I  cannot  do  such  a  thing.  I  cannot.  Do  not 
tempt  me  farther.  Lucy,  will  you  go  and  point 
out  the  hotel  to  the  lady?" 

"First,  Lucy,  please  get  me  a  cup  of  water. 
It  is  so  hot." 

"Now,  sir,"  she  continued  in  the  interval 
gained  by  the  child's  absence,  "I  give  you  one 
last  chance.  Do  you  deliberately  choose  to 
remain  here  and  keep  that  child  in  this  hopeless 
drudgery,  or  do  you  choose  to  give  her  the  educa 
tion  and  comforts  she  needs?" 

She  paused,  but  there  was  no  answer,  simply  a 


A  TEMPTATION  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

silent  gesture  toward  the  door.    The  old  man's 
face  was  white  and  drawn. 

"Sir,  if  you  lose  this  chance,  you  have  no 
hope  nor  prospects.  Do  you  accept  my  offer?" 

Still  no  answer  save  the  silent  gesture. 

'  'I  offer  you  money  and  you  spurn  it.  I  offer 
you  a  livelihood  and  you  refuse.  If  you  should 
die  here,  now  or  soon,  the  child  Lucy  will  be 
kept  here,  penniless,  friendless  and  alone  in  this 
desolation.' 

"I  know  it,  I  know  it."  The  words  came  in 
voluntarily,  drawn  from  him  in  his  agony. 

'  'For  her  sake  cannot  you  forget  your  scruple 
and  accept  my  offer?" 

"Here,  madame,  is  the  water,"  said  the  child. 

"Your  answer?" 

The  old  man  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Madame,  I  cannot.  For  her  sake,  by  whose 
name  you  seek  to  tempt  me  —  for  her  sake  I 
must  leave  the  name  of  James  Anderson  pure 
and  stainless."  And  it  was  the  James  Anderson 
of  former  years  who  stood  there,  speaking  with 
the  voice  and  power  that  once  held  great  au 
diences  spellbound.  Then  a  look  of  gentleness,  v 
even  of  compassion  illumined  his  face.  He 
repeated  softly:  "I  must  keep  my  name  spotless 
to  the  end."  He  raised  his  hands  as  in  bene- 


A  TEMPTATION  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

diction.  "And  now,"  he  said,  "that  I  must  go 
so  soon  to  my  eternal  home,  I  pray  the  Father 
to  forgive  thee  for  so  sorely  tempting  an  old 
and  feeble  man.  Go  in  peace." 

In  her  vexation  and  anger  the  woman  turned 
and  threw  the  water  into  the  face  of  the  un 
offending  child,  and  hurled  the  cup  to  the  floor. 
Then  her  face  aflame  with  fury  she  hurried  from 
the  house. 

The  old  man  sank  back  in  his  chair.  Without 
a  thought  for  herself  the  child  ran  and  brought 
him  water.  Then,  climbing  up  beside  him,  she 
began  to  stroke  his  hair. 

"Father,"  she  said  in  a  hushed  voice,  "that 
woman  told  you  she  had  enjoyed  your  poems, 
and  at  the  station  she  said  she  never  read 
them." 

"Yes,  yes,  my  child." 

"Did  I  do  wrong  to  bring  her  here,  father? 
I  didn't  know  she  would  be  this  way." 

"It  was  all  right,  dear.  You  are  father's 
comfort,  Lucy,  so  brave  and  helpful." 

"What  shall  I  get  for  supper,  father?" 
"My  child,  I  have  no  money." 


A  TEMPTATION  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"But  she  bought  a  book.  See,  here  is  the 
quarter." 

"And  all  the  time  she  was  here  I  could  not 
help  thinking,  'you  must  send  your  child  hungry 
to  bed  tonight.'  Don't  cry,  Lucy;  surely,  the 
Lord  doth  provide." 

But  with  the  strain  removed,  his  self-control 
gave  way  and  the  flood-gates  broke,  the  sound 
was  heard  in  the  little  white  adobe  house  of  the 
mingled  sobbing  of  a  little  child  and  an  old,  old 
man. 

Without,  the  afternoon  sun  beat  down 
savagely  on  the  lifeless  plain  and  lit  with  a 
lurid  glow  the  form  of  a  woman  tramping 
sullenly  through  the  dust  toward  the  station. 


Biographical 


John  Martin  Newkirk,  author  of  the 
poems,  stories  and  sketches  contained  in  this 
book,  was  the  son  of  Dr.  Garrett  Newkirk  and 
Martha  Martin  Newkirk.  He  was  born  at 
Wenona,  Illinois,  October  2,  1879.  When  he  was 
nearly  four  years  old  the  family  moved  to 
Chicago,  where  he  grew  to  manhood,  attending 
the  schools  of  Forestville,  Kenwood,  and  Hyde 
Park  High  School,  from  which  he  graduated  in 
1899.  The  family  having  removed  to  Pasadena, 
California,  the  same  year  he  entered  Occidental 
College,  Los  Angeles,  for  his  freshman  course. 
The  following  year  he  went  to  Berkeley,  and 
entered  the  State  University  of  California,  from 
which  he  graduated  three  years  later,  1903,  with 
the  degree  of  A.  B. 

During  his  High  School  course  and  also  at 
Berkeley  he  specialized  in  English  literature  and 
won  distinction  for  original  work.  The  poem, 
"Ballad  of  Valma  Bay"  and  the  story,  "A 
Temptation  in  the  Wilderness,"  won  the  Irving 
M.  Scott  first  and  second  prizes.  While  attend 
ing  the  University  he  was  an  active  member  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL 

the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and  helpful  in  the  work  of 
missions  in  San  Francisco. 

Having  chosen  the  ministry  for  his  life  work, 
in  the  autumn  of  1903  he  entered  the  Theological 
Seminary  at  Princeton,  N.  J.,  from  which  he  was 
graduated  in  May,  1906.  During  his  second 
and  third  years  at  the  Seminary  he  also  took  a 
post-graduate  course  in  Princeton  University, 
and  in  June,  1906,  received  the  degree  of  M.  A. 

At  about  this  time  he  was  taken  ill,  and  it 
was  soon  determined  that  his  disease  was 
tuberculosis. 

He  returned  to  the  home  of  his  parents,  at 
Upper  Altadena,  California,  on  the  foothills  of 
the  Sierra  Madre  range  of  mountains.  Here  no 
favorable  condition  seemed  to  be  lacking  for  his 
recovery,  but  nothing  availed  to  stay  the  march 
of  the  insidious  enemy.  And  yet  upon  the  cloud 
that  hovered  near  there  seemed  to  be  the  ever 
present  bow  of  hope,  and  the  home  life  was 
always  bright. 

With  a  large  fund  of  pleasant  reminiscences, 
bright  wit  and  a  cheerful  spirit,  with  an  outlook 
on  the  world  each  week  through  the  best  of 
current  literature,  with  much  of  Bible  study  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL 

a  heart  of  faith  and  trust,  his  companionship 
gave  help  and  comfort  to  other  lives;  even  to 
the  last  day,  April  1, 1910,  when  he  was  promoted 
to  the  higher  sphere. 

From  first  to  last  we  may  say  of  our  son  that 
his  life  was  a  blessing  to  all  around  him.  From  a 
child  he  "went  about  doing  good."  In  every 
school  he  attended,  in  Church  and  Sunday 
School,  Christian  Endeavor  or  Young  Men's 
Christian  Association,  his  sweet  and  kindly  in 
fluence  was  felt  and  appreciated. 

During  his  seminary  years  he  preached  in 
various  places  within  the  range  of  a  few  hundred 
miles.  He  was  greatly  interested  in  foreign 
missions  and  did  much  to  stimulate  activities  in 
that  direction  among  the  students,  and  he  was 
ever  ready  to  speak  effectively  for  the  cause 
where  opportunity  offered.  And  he  was  ever 
enthusiastic,  always  hopeful. 

His  cheerful  spirit  pervades  his  literary  work, 
a  part  of  which  is  published  in  this  little  book  in 
accordance  with  his  wish. 

G.  N. 

M.  M.  N. 


A  Few  Extracts  from 
Tributes  Received 

"John  Newkirk — he  is  among  the  pleasant  memories  of  my 
life,  for  he  came  into  it  at  that  delightful  period  of  a  boy's 
journey,  between  High  School  and  College — a  land  of  visions 
and  a  time  of  hopes,  for  the  days  of  dreams  were  not  yet. 
The  visions  were  high  and  the  hopes  were  fair,  and  all  his  life 
grew  into  harmony  with  his  early  soul-revelations.  A  manly 
man — he  was  strong  in  the  might  of  gentleness.  In  the  glory 
of  the  morning  time,  it  was  told  him  that  his  sun  should  go 
down  while  it  was  yet  day,  yet  he  lived  his  life  as  one  whose 
years  should  count  the  full  tale  of  three  score  and  ten.  Not 
with  the  defiant  recklessness  of  the  fatalist,  but  with  the  calm 
courage  and  lofty  purpose  of  one  who  is  set  to  fight  in  the 
vanguard — God's  pioneer  who  is  sent  ahead  to  clear  a  way  for 
fainting  hearts  and  weary  feet.  To  the  end  of  his  appointed 
ministry  he  was  of  good  cheer — happy  to  do  his  Lord's  work 
in  a  day,  or  a  year,  or  in  a  long-drawn  pilgrimage  of  years,  and 
gladly  content  to  loose  his  hand  from  the  plough  and  go  home 
when  his  Father  called.  A  brave,  true,  noble  life  that  beauti 
fully  fulfilled  its  destiny.  Oft  as  I  saw  him  in  the  days  of  his 
pathetic,  unequal,  yet  triumphant  battle  with  conquering 
death,  there  came  into  my  mind  a  tribute  written  about 
another  hero  of  the  faith,  nearly  two  thousand  years  ago: 

"  'And  all  that  sat  in  the  council,  fastening  their  eyes  upon 
him  saw  his  face  as  it  had  been  the  face  of  an  angel.'  " 

REV.  ROBT.   J.  BURDETTE 

Pasadena. 


A   FEW    EXTRACTS  FROM    TRIBUTES  RECEIVED 

"I  remember  him  very  well  in  the  Seminar  Class,  where 
he  did  his  work  with  fidelity  and  intelligence  and  a  fine  spirit. 

I  count  it  a  great  privilege  to  come  into  contact  with  the 
lives  of  young  men  like  your  son,  and  to  have  personal  rela 
tions  with  them;  for  whether  their  lives  are  spent  here  or  in 
some  world  that  we  cannot  see,  I  firmly  believe  that  they  are 
going  on  in  good  and  brave  and  helpful  service." 

HENRY  van  DYKE, 

Princeton,   N.  J. 


"John  Newkirk  was  a  rare  young  man.  He  was  one  in  a 
thousand.  The  last  service  I  conducted  in  Pasadena  was 
John's  funeral  service,  and  of  all  my  ten  years'  duties  there 
I  think  it  was  the  hardest,  for  I  loved  him  as  a  brother  and 
on  that  occasion  I  simply  lost  control  of  myself. 

"John  had  a  brilliant  mind.  He  certainly  would  have  made 
a  deep  mark  on  his  age  if  his  life  had  been  spared.  He  had  a 
strong  literary  sense;  he  had  the  poet's  insight  and  the 
artist's  touch.  Some  of  his  lines  are  worthy  of  a  master. 
But  it  was  his  sweet  simplicity,  his  noble  spirit,  his  patience 
his  optimism,  his  cheery  good  nature,  his  pure  and  Christ-like 
love  that  appealed  most  to  me.  He  was  genuine  through  and 
through.  His  earnestness  was  contagious,  his  spirit  winsome. 

"He  made  a  heroic  fight.  Through  pain  and  disappoint 
ment  and  set-back  he  never  flinched.  Not  to  defeat  did  he 
fall — to  victory  rather,  to  fulness,  to  growth,  to  glory. 

"He  was  a  graduate  from  the  school  of  Christ." 

REV. MALCOLM  J.  McLeoD. 

New  York 


A    FEW   EXTRACTS   FROM  TRIBUTES  RECEIVED 

"My  memory  of  John  Newkirk  is  of  a  beautiful  and  gen 
uinely  religious  soul,  who  loved  all  good  things — most  his 
friends,  and  next  to  them  the  wayward  ones  he  knew  of.  He 
seemed  too  gentle  to  shed  blood  in  religious  crusade,  and  the 
mystic  in  religion  and  life  was  too  real  to  him  for  the  measur 
ing  rod  and  crucible.  But  he  taught  us  who  knew  him  the 
worth  of  purity,  of  sacred  things,  and  of  gentle  living — and 
he  still  teaches  us!" 

DR.  NORMAN  BRIDGE, 

Los  Angeles. 


From  a  letter  written  by  Mrs.  Katherine  Girling,  of  Chicago, 
one  of  the  author's  teachers  in  High  School: 

"I  have  distinct  pictures  in  memory  of  John  Newkirk  as  a 
boy,  reciting  in  class.  When  you  consider  that  I  knew  in  all 
more  than  two  thousand  young  people,  it  is  not  trivial  that  I 
should  recall  as  a  happy  possession  the  vision  of  a  young  fellow 
making  a  recitation,  a  scrap  of  conversation,  an  aphorism,  a 
conclusion  quite  his  own  after  class. 

"When  in  1900  I  was  in  Paris,  at  the  Exposition  in  the 
American  section  in  the  educational  exhibit,  I  saw  framed  as 
an  example  of  English  teaching — the  only  one  then  from 
America — a  poem  John  had  written,  'All  Sorts  in  Free'  ('I 
Spy')-  Was  it  not  indicative  of  his  mental  attitude,  of  his 
largeness  of  feeling,  that  he  should  have  taken  that  as  a 
theme?" 


A  FEW  EXTRACTS  FROM    TRIBUTES    RECEIVED 


'Tew  boys  are  born  with  the  qualities  of  mind  and  heart 
that  John  displayed  from  the  first. 

He  was  a  fine  interpreter,  a  deep  thinker,  and  he  will  leave  a 
void,  not  only  in  your  hearts,  but  in  the  hearts  of  his  hosts  of 
friends.  I  shall  always  be  thankful  that  I  was  one  of  them." 

DR.  C.  N.  JOHNSON. 

Chicago,  III. 


"If  the  value  of  a  life  is  to  be  measured  by  the  good  it  does, 
rather  than  by  its  term  of  years,  then  the  life  of  your  son 
John  must  be  ranked  high  in  the  scale  of  worth.  The  influence 
of  his  sweet  spirit,  brave  in  adversity,  has  been  far-reaching. 

This  must  be  the  testimony  of  each  of  his  wide  circle  of 
acquaintances.  Such  an  influence  extends  and  multiplies  till 
the  angels  themselves  cannot  compute  the  total  good  resulting 
to  the  world." 

MRS.  F.  M. 
Altai  Ion  a,    Cal. 


A   FEW   EXTRACTS  FROM   TRIBUTES  RECEIVED 


"My  little  intercourse  with  your  son  was  sufficient  to  show 
me  the  profound  earnestness  of  his  religious  life." 

JAMES  A.  B.  SCHERER, 

President   Throop  Institute, 

Pasadena,   Cal. 


"Everyone  who  knew  him  will  keep  him  in  mind  for  his 
cheerfulness,  his  helpfulness,  his  friendly  attitude  toward 
everyone,  his  deep  Christian  faith  and  willingness  to  give 
himself  for  the  uplifting  of  his  fellow  men.  Surely  in  such  an 
age  of  doubt  and  pessimism,  it  is  something  to  have  such  an 
example  for  even  a  few  years." 

MRS.  J.  S.  D., 
Princeton,  N.  J. 


"A  life  so  consecrated  must  have  been  useful  to  the  Master. 
Life  is  not  counted  by  length  of  days.  That  'life  is  long  that 
answers  life's  great  end'." 

MRS.  C.  E.  F. 

Chicago. 


A  FEW   EXTRACTS  FROM   TRIBUTES  RECEIVED 


"John  Martin  Newkirk  would  have  had  a  brilliant  career 
as  an  Ambassador  of  Christ,  perhaps  in  foreign  lands.  His 
career  was  cut  short,  but  not  until  he  had  performed  a  noble 
ministry,  inspiring  many  by  his  patience,  his  courage,  and  his 
helpfulness.  Like  the  Master  to  whose  service  he  had  dedi 
cated  his  life  '  he  went  about  doing  good, ' — how  much  cannot 
be  measured  this  side  of  eternity. 

" But  'To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind  is  not  to  die.' 

J.  F.  M. 
(In  Pasadena  Star) . 


"Such  a  sweet  life  he  lived — it  was  all  written  upon  his 
face,  in  the  depth  of  his  lovely  eyes  and  in  his  tender  smile." 

MRS.  S.  R.  O. 

Pasadena. 


"I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful  evidence  of  perfect  under 
standing  and  comradeship  than  a  look  or  a  smile  that  passed 
between  John  and  his  mother." 

DR.  C.  B.. 
New    York. 


A  FEW   EXTRACTS  FROM  TRIBUTES  RECEIVED 


"You  may  be  familiar  with  a  story  told  me  through  a  former 
Princeton  student.  A  young  man  of  great  promise  who  had 
just  left  the  University  to  die,  as  I  recall  the  story,  was  speak 
ing  with  his  father  at  his  bed  one  day  when  the  father  broke 
completely  down.  The  son  laid  his  hand  on  the  father's  head 
and  said:  "Father,  that  isn't  the  Princeton  spirit:  'Cheer 
when  you're  losing'  is  our  motto."  This  is  the  Christian  spirit 
too,  isn't  it?  And  we  know  we  can  never  lose." 

REV.  F.  C.  R. 

Phoenix,    Ariz. 


"When  he  told  me  he  had  decided  to  be  a  Christian 
minister,  I  believed  that  he  would  take  a  place  among  the 
best  and  most  successful  winners  of  souls. 

We  remember  the  happy  hours  we  spent  together  in  your 
Chicago  home  when  John  was  a  mere  boy.  His  shining  eyes 
and  happy  face  always  seemed  to  say  to  me:  "Mr.  Morton, 
I'm  right  glad  you  are  here  and  I  hope  you  will  soon  come 

again." 

REV.  C.  M.  M. 

Oak    Park,    111. 


A   FEW   EXTRACTS    FROM   TRIBUTES   RECEIVED 


"I  am  glad  I  knew  your  son.     I  find  myself  remembering 
his  face  with  a  smile  on  it.     He  struggled  and  yet  he  smiled; 

what  a  lesson  to  remember — for  all  of  us." 

MRS.G.B. 

Pasadena. 


"  It  is  something  fine  we  may  say,  that  in  spite  of  suffering 
we  may  still  fulfill  God's  purposes  of  usefulness,  for  John's 
sermons  were  preached,  though  not  as  he  had  planned  to 
deliver  them — sermons  of  courage,  of  patience,  of  trust,  the 
greatest  themes  a  minister  ever  handles;  and  they  were 
masterfully  handled  by  him,  not  in  words,  as  by  other  preach 
ers,  but  in  his  life.  Even  in  the  short  time  that  I  knew  him 
they  struck  home  and  have  given  me  courage." 

MISS  S.  B. 

Salem,  Ore. 


"So  the  long  fight  for  life  is  over!     It  was  a  brave  one,  and 
if  it  could  only  have  been  one  of  victory!     For  the  soul  it  is!  " 

MRS.  E.  R.  G., 

Chicago. 


A  FEW   EXTRACTS    FROM  TRIBUTES  RECEIVED 


"John  was  a  great  boy.  I  have  been  thinking  of  those  happy 
days  when  he  and  I  played  together  on  Forty-fourth  Street. 
His  room  there  with  the  scrap  book,  stamp  album  and  the 
writing  table  became  very  dear  to  me  through  the  years  that 
we  chummed  together. 

What  an  enjoyable  chap  he  was!  Thoroughly  sincere  and 
earnest,  yet  he  saw  the  happy  side  of  things  and  made  others 

see  as  he  saw." 

THOMAS  J.  HAIR, 

Chicago,  111. 


"And  what  a  beautiful  home  life  he  had!  Father,  mother 
and  son — those  three  had  the  same  love  of  literature,  art  and 
music,  the  same  lofty  ideals  in  common,  of  faith,  hope  and 
love.  Perhaps  God  gave  to  them  so  much  of  happiness 
because  of  the  time  soon  coming  when  one  should  be  translated 
to  that  infinitely  higher  home  of  the  spirit. 

John  was  finer  grained  than  most  men.  We  admired  his 
intellect,  and  commended  his  devotion  to  works  of  goodness 
and  mercy.  His  faith  and  trust  in  his  Master  through  years 
of  illness  were  an  inspiration  to  us  all." 

DAN  S.  HAMMACK, 

Los   Angeles. 
(A  Princeton  chum) 


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